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@martelisms
Pushed to the ground by a passing individual, the preteen soon fell to the ground with a yelp of pain as he hit the pavement. ❝Ow!❞
❝There’s people down here, you know!❞ He exclaimed to the already-leaving offender. With a knee now scraped up and dirtied from the sidewalk he fell upon, Genis held fast to his injured area and looked around him. It wasn’t often he was left without someone who knew First Aid. ❝If only Raine was here.❞
What about Martel?
The Goddess
Religion isn’t really something she thinks about often. It’s not that she doesn’t believe, or that she does believe, exactly - she supposes if she thought about it hard, she’d be more likely to believe there’s a something than not, but she’s not sure exactly what form it takes, or even if it does take one at all. That being said, she likes the stories about the exploits of the Hero and his companions, and it’s always nice to see people comforted by the thought of a kind and benevolent goddess, even if she’s not sure that goddess would be a person if she really exists.
The Woman
A kind person, and one who she still feels bad about her initial reaction to. She doesn’t know much about her, but she’d like to be friends - and these days when she reminds herself that not every stranger is a Desian in disguise, Martel is one of the examples she uses to calm herself.
The Cause
(for event!Anna)
When Kratos tells her the truth (and it happens in fragments, really), she isn’t sure what to think for a while. She seems like a kind person from the way Kratos describes her, but to raise a normal person to godhood seems... wrong, not to mention committing all kinds of atrocities in Her (her) name.
She finds herself relating most, when she thinks about the situation, not to Kratos’s conflict or Mithos’s determination or Yuan’s opposition, but to Martel herself, and how she would feel in her situation. She knows that if their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t want this; she doubts Martel would, either.
Examine: Martel?
[meme] [accepting]
> EXAMINE
You ran into her once, when you thought you saw your mom on the other side of the street. You think her name is Martel, but you can’t be entirely sure. You were a bit out of it when you met her. You might be sure of her name, but you do know she seems like a Mom.
> GRAB HER HAND
There’s a lot of people moving around you and it makes you nervous. You grab Martel’s hand and scoot close to her, feeling safer holding someone’s hand.
>> [MARTEL PICKS YOU UP]
Suddenly you’re in Martel’s arms. You blink owlishly at her before realizing the crowd doesn’t seem as bad with her holding you. You lay your head down on her shoulder.
> PLAY WITH HER HAIR
You can’t help but run your hands through her hair and then attempting to braid it. The braid will definitely turn out terrible, but it’s the thought that counts.
leave your voices at the door and do the right thing
@martelisms
He can’t say he ever particularly liked the desians. Yet, as attempts to look past the clouds for some glimpse of Derris-Kharlon (yes, he knows it is nowhere near this place, but still he looks), he wonders of their fate without his presence. Here, he cannot fulfill his duty, cannot receive his retribution.
What do normal humans do when they feel cold and weary and hopeless? Goddess, save me. Goddess, forgive me. How many times has he heard these words? But she wasn’t a goddess, after all.
The air tastes bitter with technology. He does not like that city lights blot out the stars. At least there, he can alleviate the terrible homesickness by thinking that perhaps those on Aselia look in his direction at night before they sleep.
But even here is not so far from home that he cannot hear her voice. He does not respond immediately, for he has had these conversations many times before.
“...Hello, Martel.”
He does not turn to look, so that he can better pretend she is there.
@martelisms
Martel.
She was right in front of him. She stood, yards away, dazed and confused, not yet noticing his presence. She was here. She was alive. His wish for the past 4,000 years was granted. He was finally able to reunite with his cherished sister.
But he couldn’t approach her.
He couldn’t speak to her.
He couldn’t run at her and embrace her like he’d used to do thousands of years ago.
All he could do was stare. He watched her hair sway in the breeze. He watched her posture, her familiar mannerisms. He watched her green eyes scan the city.
Looking at her hurt.
It hurt with the weight of 4,000 years of loneliness. Of working tirelessly for the person who meant the world to you just for them to tell you you’re wrong. It hurt like everyone in the world turning their back on you.
But this was what he want’ed, wasn’t it?
His sister was here. Even after everything had crashed around him, he had finally gotten her back.
He couldn’t turn away. Even if he could tell what would happen if he approached her; this was something he couldn’t run from. It was his dream. She was his life.
For once he didn’t force a demeanor. There was no smile on his lips, there was no cockiness in his gait. When he revealed himself to her, he revealed himself without defenses.
“Sister.”
Reunion.
@martelisms
The cityscape hints at advanced magitechnology, but this has apparently come at the sacrifice of vibrant hues. Grey smoke unfurls from soot-tinged factory buildings, and the frozen sky contains no trace of the azure which cloaked Sylverant. But were it not for this monochrome backdrop, perhaps he would not have noticed that flash of green.
War-sharpened eyes fixate on a woman wearing strangely familiar attire. He does not trust his initial conclusion, however, until a glimpse of her face reveals that she must be, indeed, the one whom his mind first recalled.
...It can’t be.
Long strides carry the ex-soldier to her side. ...Had Mithos succeeded? He folds his arms across his chest and focuses his gaze downward, as if this goddess’s light might render him blind.
“After all this time... We meet again, Martel Yggdrasill.”
“Too damn cold,” Anna grumbled, plopping down on a bench and rubbing her aching feet. It was her own fault for not taking the strange shoes that had been at her apartment along with the new clothes, but after going so long without shoes of any kind, she hadn’t relished the idea of trying to force her calloused feet into weirdly-shaped things like those.
Now, though, she was regretting her decision; the cold aside, she’d already added to the colourful array of bruises and cuts below her ankles. She turned her left foot over and grimaced; it looked like so much mincemeat at this point.
Ah, well. She’d just have to put up with it until she got back.
